


Just a Dream

by Aella_Antiope



Series: Balance [8]
Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, M/M, Polyfidelity, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aella_Antiope/pseuds/Aella_Antiope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wolfram was Yuuri’s shining prince and Murata’s beautiful lover, which should have been enough to help him cope with the hard days.  It wasn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This was betaed by HARPG0. But all mistakes are mine.

~***~

Sometimes, not very often, Wolfram would dream of a simpler life.

It was a fantasy he’d had as a child and had evolved as he grew up. When he was young, he’d imagine what it would be like to live in a small village, in a little house with his brothers and his mother...and his father. On the whole, Wolfram didn’t miss the father who had died when he was a baby. He couldn’t miss what he had never known. But, his uncle, _not_ the doltish one, his father’s brother, would tell him tales about his father and he’d wonder what his life would have been like if he’d survived. Likely, his mother would have tired of him. Even knowing that, in his small village fantasy, his father was married to his mother and she was truly happy, not running around the world for months at a time looking for affection. His brothers were content. There was no war and his mother never had to worry about ruling a kingdom.

These days, as prince consort, in that drowsy moment before sleep claimed him, he’d indulge again in that fantasy. Not often, not even occasionally, just on exceptionally difficult days.

On the days when Yuuri had to make hard choices, ones that often led to someone’s death, upon deciding the fate of thousands and his king, his _love_ , would spend sleepless hours in bed troubled and upset.

On the days when Murata had been caught up in some business with Yozak to protect the kingdom, to _protect_ Yuuri, Wolfram had intentionally remained oblivious to the sage’s schemes. He knew if he asked, Murata would tell him the truth, or some of it at least. But, he was a coward and remained silent, afraid of that truth. Wolfram preferred the honour and simplicity of honest battle, yet had grown pragmatic enough to know that the enemy sometimes employed deceitful means and that other ways were required to combat it. He accepted that, but he didn’t want to know the details. Murata would spend hours in his study in his official suites, not quite able to look him in the eye when he eventually emerged. Wolfram would pretend that he didn’t notice that, now and again, (not as often as under his mother’s reign), servants and guards would vanish, none of his men though, not so far. He hoped never.

On the days when he held Yuuri, while his trembling husband confessed how confusing it was to commune with the Maou.

Describing some of the images that slipped through to him, of a dark spirit that had lived for so long and seen so much and had destroyed to keep Shin Makoku from enemies...and now who lived within Yuuri. His lovely, beautiful, gentle Yuuri.

“What if I stop being me?” Yuuri would often ask.

“You’ll always be you, Yuuri,” Wolfram had said, had always said when this question was asked.

“He’s changing me. I can feel it.” Yuuri shook his head, because Wolfram’s reassurances never could help, though he tried.

But on that particular day it was different.

To the right of them, head resting on Wolfram’s shoulder silent until then, Murata placed one hand over Yuuri’s right eyebrow, circling it in an old blessing and had murmured. “And you’re changing him.”

Whatever Yuuri took from those words Wolfram didn’t know but his frame relaxed and the trembling stopped.

With a soft exhale, Yuuri had buried his head in the crook of Wolfram’s neck and he’d feathered his hands in those black locks and gave Murata a questioning look.

Murata had never denied Yuuri’s fear.

On the days (or, rather “nights”) when Murata had nightmares, calling out in a foreign language to someone, or even _worse_ , calling out to Shinou brokenly in archaic mazoku, begging him to not leave him alone, shuddering, face wet with tears. Yuuri would speak to him softly in Japanese.

“We’re here, Ken. We love you. We’re here. It’s okay, _love_. You’re home. You’re not alone.”

From behind, Wolfram would put his arms around Murata’s waist while Yuuri stroked Murata’s arms and kissed his brow and would keep up a constant murmur of reassurance in the language that both his husbands were born to. Murata would fall back into peaceful sleep, blessedly never fully waking into consciousness. Wolfram felt powerless then, felt overwhelmed by Murata’s pain.

It was a glimpse into another life that Wolfram liked not.

He was brought up to believe that the tale of the original Great Sage, a legend, was romantic and brave. Murata’s cries exposed it for what it was, a raw and terrible betrayal. He wished he could hunt down Shinou and make him pay for the pain he inflicted on Murata’s soul, for the unforgiveable sin of abandoning a loved one. He vowed he would treat Murata better and give him so much love that those scars could be erased, but knowing it was an impossible task.

In the morning, neither Yuuri nor Wolfram talked about it.

Then, there were the days spent with his squad... the days that...well... weren’t that important. They were nothing compared to the duties and burdens of the king and the sage. The men whom he slept with, whom he loved, the men who shielded him from the worst, who allowed him the freedom to escape the castle and who indulged him (more than he deserved), with his silly whims, his tantrums, and obstinacy. The men who made him feel respected, cherished, and desired.

Wolfram was Yuuri’s shining prince and Murata’s beautiful lover, which should have been enough to help him cope with the hard days.

It wasn’t.

On those difficult days, he’d dream they were simple mazoku in that imaginary village which had become so vivid and real in his mind over so long a period. Wolfram would breed and train horses with a modest stud and sometimes paint pictures for sale at the market. Murata, with his knowledge, would teach the children of the village. And Yuuri, well, to be honest Wolfram’s imagination couldn’t quite extend to seeing him other than king. In his fantasy, Yuuri would putter around their home and go out and play baseball with the village children, go out riding with Wolfram and Conrad, or visit Greta and little Huber who would live in a lovely house in the centre of the village when he wasn’t at home spending time with his husbands. Wolfram would protect and support Yuuri in a way he could not in this world. Maybe, they could adopt another child without worrying about kidnappings or schemes or what the aristocrats would say. He’d only have his brothers and his mother around to visit, but far enough away that they didn’t see them every day, like they had to...like it was in the castle.

The worse they would ever worry about was working out if that oak in the back should be trimmed to prevent a branch falling on the cottage in summer storms, or Murata worrying about a student and Wolfram a mare heavy with foal. Yuuri would not need to sign documents which would lead to death. Murata wouldn’t have to order the ‘removal’ of spies or read books on poisons or ever have that distant alien look in his eyes. Wolfram wouldn’t have to kill anyone. He’d never have to smell burning flesh or see innocents harmed. There would be no nightmares or assassins and the gods would all ignore them.

There would be no Maou.

That shameful and treasonous fancy he’d never admit to a living soul because he loved and honoured the spirit and the Maou was Yuuri’s in a way that Wolfram could barely fathom. The Maou made Yuuri stronger, nestled within his soul. The Maou protected them all. Yet, in his dream, he and Murata had only innocent, wimpy Yuuri all to themselves, just as wise and kind, but still naive in the same way (but not _all_ ways) as he’d been when he was fifteen.

Of course, not all of his dream world was innocent.

In that cottage a little outside the village, on summer mornings (it was mostly summer, sometimes spring, and never too hot), Wolfram would be curled up against his lovers, both of them a little fatter and softer because Murata would eat more and Yuuri would never need to practice swordplay. He’d have them all to himself on days that Yuuri had told him that Earth commoners had off every week. Not just holidays but something that was casual, weekly, becoming part of their everyday life. There would be warm, slow, lazy lovemaking while the sun shone through the green leafy vines that would grow up over their window. He would watch Yuuri make love to Murata dappled in green and bright sunlight. Murata would brush his lips over Yuuri’s skin, or slowly suck Wolfram’s arousal while Yuuri kissed away his breathy moans as Wolfram clenched his hands into the soft bed linen. Then his Yuuri would take him while he was senseless from the pleasure of Murata’s lips. Yuuri’s hips rocking slowly, deliciously filling him.

They would be alone. Safe.

It was just a small fancy. A daydream on hard days and an indulgent moment before sleep which he allowed himself. In the morning, he’d awake and face the day, putting aside all such thoughts. There would be his true life. Not perfect, but with his family, his loves, his duty, it brought him happiness.

He was truly happy. Wolfram was Yuuri’s shining prince and Murata’s beautiful lover and he would love, protect, and serve them forever and always.

But...

Wolfram’s dream would be there for him on those difficult days when he needed it, just before sleep.


End file.
